


the day and the hour

by reclamation



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17229374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: From the moment they’re born, everyone knows something about how they will die. Leonard McCoy is not an exception and neither is Jim.





	the day and the hour

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works.

i.

Leonard knew that he would die one day and, like everyone else, he also knew a little about how it was supposed to happen. Or—as in Leonard’s case— _exactly when_.

Unlike his cousin Dave, who claimed to have a dramatic scene of his final moments awash in his head like a holovid, Leonard only had a stardate. He saw the blocky letters clearly inside his mind, black and bold and precise down to the minute. As soon as he was old enough to do it on his own, he did the math.

So Leonard McCoy always knew he was destined to die at the ripe old age of one hundred and thirty-eight but nothing more beyond that.

 

 

ii.

“Lost one today,” Leonard reported on his way in the door. As an afterthought, he added, “Sorry I’m late.”

With only a small frown, Jocelyn took his arm and guided him to the kitchen before assembling a meal from leftovers to reheat for him. She said, “You’ll feel better if you eat a little.”

Leonard nodded absently, mentally still stuck at the hospital—the sting of his failure was still too fresh to be able to stop it from cycling through his mind. The patient had been too young to not feel the cosmic injustice of his death, but it was the encounter after that kept nagging at him.

He turned to Jocelyn to watch her expressive face as he said, “After I called it, I went out to tell the wife. She was already all busted up crying. I didn’t even get to say the standard, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.’ She looked me right in the eye and said: ‘I already know. He told me today was his day.’ Just like that.” He paused to take a deep breath, “They were both so young, Joc.”

He didn’t know what reaction he had been expecting, but an indelicate scoff was not it. Jocelyn slid a now hot, delicious-smelling plate towards him.

“Oh, Len,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm gently. “That is exactly why everyone should have to report in their medical records. If you knew his number was up you wouldn’t have had to waste your time and energy like that. Sometimes I don’t think anyone thinks of what you poor doctors have to go through on a daily basis.”

“It’s not me I worry about, you know,” Leonard disagreed. He ignored the food and pressed his hand over her smaller one, enjoying the warmth of her palm through his sleeve.

“You’re always worrying about the wrong people. It’s a near criminal waste of resources.”

But Leonard had heard all these arguments before from Jocelyn as well as from others. One of his ethics courses in medical school had returned to the subject again and again like a pendulum. Half the class—and Jocelyn if she had been there—would argue that, since each person was granted at least some knowledge about his or her inevitable death, that information should be  _used_. If hospitals had records, they would know to divert precious resources to the lives that could be saved rather than to those doomed to be lost. Leonard stood vocally with the debate’s opposition: The prediction of death was an inexact science at best. Some people only had the vaguest impressions—a smell, a time, a face—and misinterpretation would be an inexcusable mistake. The only conscientious way a doctor could do their duty was to approach each patient the same way and give their best each time.

He didn’t want to get into that can of worms after a long day in surgery, so he answered simply: “It’s my job to try to save them.”

Jocelyn removed her hand, giving him that impish smile he was still so in love with. She said, “Well, if it’s all the same to you, don’t you ever go telling me when you expect to make me a widow. I’m planning on keeping you around a little while yet.”

Hours before the wedding, Jocelyn had made Leonard promise this same thing and he had kept his end of the bargain. A blind man could see how much the topic upset Jocelyn. Even if Jocelyn didn’t ever divulge the details of her death, Leonard had pieced enough together over time from little slips and hints to know that they had a long stretch ahead of them.

He kissed her full on her lips and broke away only to whisper gruffly against the corner of her mouth, “I’m not planning on going anywhere any time soon, honey.”

 

 

iii.

He was always a good son. He was also a good doctor. He never expected those qualities to be in contention.

“This is the way I’ve always seen it,” David McCoy said, eyes and hands pressed tightly closed against his agony.

And Leonard had capitulated to his father’s request despite every angry debate he had snarled his way through. His own words screamed at him that it was always, always a doctor’s job to heal no matter what a patient said about their own personal death predictions.

When he got home, Jocelyn took one look at him and sucked in a sharp breath.

She tried to draw him in, placed a soothing kiss on his forehead, murmured about how even a doctor couldn’t change fate.

That was the first night he pushed her away; a month later, the name Treadway began to sprinkle into her speech, growing a fondness that McCoy was too mired in his own misery and bourbon to notice.

 

 

iv.

Merely by virtue of being in his thirties rather than his  _one hundred and thirties_ , Leonard knew that the divorce and shuttle ride to Starfleet Academy wouldn’t kill him. The knowledge didn’t alleviate the pain in his chest or the nervous lurch in his stomach. Both seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

He topped off his flask and took a healthy swig from the bottle before he fled his old life for good with the divorce papers shoved into one pocket.

 

 

v.

First of all, it was only good manners to not ask people what they knew about their own death. And Eleanora McCoy had made sure to raise a polite boy. Second, it was practically a catechism in med school, reinforced through constant repetition: “A physician will never violate a patient’s privacy by asking about his end.”

These things combined have resulted in Leonard H. McCoy never asking a single soul—not even Jocelyn—when or how they were going to die.

Of course, it took James T. Kirk less than two weeks after meeting Leonard to drag him to the closest bar, drain an inhuman amount of liquor, and declare: “So I’m gonna die young and alone,” Kirk thumped his chest over his heart, “With pain right here. How ‘bout you?”

Leonard—although he was starting to think of himself as ‘McCoy’ thanks to Starfleet and sometimes even ‘Bones’ due to the insufferable cadet across from him—huffed into his beer, “I’ll be around a good while yet, kid. Don’t you worry about me.”

Kirk grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder, “Glad to hear it, buddy.”

 

 

vi.

Kirk didn’t mention his death again for a year as far as McCoy knew. Maybe Kirk hadn’t even told anyone other than McCoy at all, because it’s during an ill-advised party that McCoy had been tricked into attending (“It’s a networking thing with the Andorian Music and Arts Academy, Bones!”) that a drunken crowd actually thinks that ‘Truth or Dare’ was an appropriate game for adults to play and that an intriguing question would be to find out what each player knew about their own death.

They were all—unsurprisingly—several drinks in by this point.

The game derailed as they all spouted off what they knew without hesitance: Gaila had shrugged and said, “I know I shall die in space—but that is not unusual in Starfleet.” The guy from Kirk’s command classes had grinned, “In the line of duty. I save someone when I go.” The pretty girl on his arm, who happened to be the only Andorian in attendance, added, “I see . . . flashes of a ship, but I don’t have much more than that to go on.”

Leonard hadn’t volunteered anything, but everyone’s attention turned straight to Jim.

“Guys, c’mon, it’s not very interesting,” Kirk deflected.

Gaila wheedled, Command Track cajoled, Pretty Girl pleaded with wide eyes.

Kirk grinned self-deprecatingly, “All I know is that it’ll hurt my chest.”

Leonard looked to him, waiting for Kirk to tell them the rest, but Kirk didn’t continue.

Command Track laughed outright, “Probably a heart attack, Kirk.”

Kirk shrugged and smiled, uncharacteristically quiet.

Pretty Girl jumped to Jim’s defense, “It could be lots of things!”

“Like what?” Command Track asked.

“A broken rib or injured lung—I don’t know!” She said, “It could be a broken heart for all  _you_  know.”

“For obvious reasons, we all know Kirk’s not going to die of a broken heart,” Command Track laughed even louder and McCoy imagined his fist cracking across the asshole’s smug face.

Kirk smiled and laughed along, eyes closed off and flat.

The conversation turned to something new. But McCoy's attention was on Jim for the rest of the night. On the stumble back to the dorms, he made sure to sling his arm close and protective over Jim’s shoulders.

It was three in the morning when McCoy poured Jim into his bed.

Incongruously, Jim said with his voice slurred through the night’s booze and his hand wrapped around McCoy’s wrist like a lifeline: “It could too be a broken heart. You never know.”

“Yeah, Jim, it could be,” McCoy agreed, and tucked the blankets under Jim’s chin before bending to remove his friend’s boots.

 

 

vii.

The disciplinary hearing could have sold tickets with the way Jim and the Vulcan traded punches.

Jim was still broiling in anger as they went to report at the shuttles. “The  _test_  is a cheat, Bones. Do they want captains to lie back and accept death? Hell, with that fucking  _logic_ , we might as well stop trying, since we all know how we’re gonna die anyway.”

McCoy tugged Jim along.

“Even if the whole ship had the same predictions—all signs pointing to imminent destruction of everyone on board, that the ‘Maru was it—I’d fight harder, Bones. How’s that a bad thing?”

For the life of him, McCoy could not think of an answer.

 

 

viii.

Once Jim saved the world, the admiralty don’t have much of an answer for him either. They gave him the commendation and the ship and they pretended that they approved of Jim’s fight-against-all-odds-by-any-means-possible attitude all along.

The first year out was largely a success. There were losses, but Jim did what he said—he fought hard and then he fought harder when his back was against a wall. Accordingly, more often than not it was Jim in need of medical treatment.

McCoy tried not to hate himself for how hard his heart stuttered and thudded heavily, more than usual, whenever Jim came in with a wound to the chest. If he tried to rationalize it, he probably could. Chest wounds were serious by definition.

But it wasn’t rational. Every time Jim was carried in with red splattered over his tunic, McCoy would hear the kid say: young, alone, and— _thump!_ —pain right here.

For those injuries, McCoy monitored the captain closely. He would pull up a chair, bring out his paperwork, and keep watch until Jim was in the clear.

After the year anniversary out of dry dock, an away mission went to shit worse than usual. The whole away team was seriously injured—out of the six sent down, two bodies were left on planet and four were incoming to Sick Bay. One of which was Jim.

Two crew members in serious condition, one in critical condition, and one half-dead captain was too much for the medical staff to comfortably handle without M’Benga on board.

“Triage them,” McCoy snapped in the direction of the red shirts and nurses. Chapel appeared at his side, prepping Jim for surgery wordlessly.

Jim was in rough shape. There were smaller wounds down the length of his abdomen, but it was the trauma caused by a projectile scarcely above Jim’s heart that caused his breath to catch and his pulse to speed up.

“Don’t you dare think today is your day,” he growled. Then he got to work putting Jim back together again.

When Jim was as stable as he was going to get, not even close to out of the woods, McCoy grabbed Chapel before she moved on to assist him with the other crew members that needed him.

“Christine,” he said, voice coming out rougher than usual, “Don’t ask why, but I need you to stay with Jim. You sit with him and don’t leave for a second. Not a second, you hear?” He grabbed Jim’s limp hand and shoved it at hers. “Make sure he knows you’re here.”

Chapel nodded without complaint.

He managed to save two of three of the crew that day. The woman from security who came in critical condition was really a lost cause before she was transported back. Afterwards, McCoy felt on the verge of collapse, but his feet took him right back to Jim.

His reward was Jim’s bleary eyes, hazy but open and aware, and the smallest quirk of a smile on his cracked lips. Chapel was still sitting watch at his side, her hand still clasped to Jim’s. At the sight of them, McCoy felt a rush of profound relief and his heart finally started to settle back into something like a normal rhythm.

 

 

ix.

The minute Jim was released, he followed McCoy back to his quarters.

Because, Bones thought, any sane person would want to go sleep off almost dying by archaic projectile weapon. Not Jim, though. Jim was constitutionally incapable of taking care of himself and kept managing to survive only through some unholy mix of stubbornness and cleverness.

“So I’m pretty sure that when I woke up I told Chapel she should go grab dinner or about twelve hours of sleep, but she told me that she was under  _orders_  to hold my hand,” Jim announced, sly blue eyes sliding across McCoy with amusement flickering through them. McCoy grunted a noncommittal reply, hoping futilely that Jim would drop it. Jim didn’t. He bulled on undeterred, “I’m touched that you care, but that’s a rather unorthodox prescription, doctor.”

McCoy stepped closer, “Dammit, Jim.”

“I mean, I’m always happy to wake up to a pretty nurse, but there’s a lot of different ways to define ‘alone’—”

“Jim,” McCoy interrupted, realizing he had closed the little distance remaining between them.

“Yeah, Bones?” Jim asked, voice low and hoarse.

“Shut up,” McCoy answered. Then he pressed Jim back until his shoulders bumped against the wall and kissed him.

“Fuck yes,” Jim hissed against McCoy’s lips, yanking him forward so that their hips sat flush against each other.

McCoy was careful removing Jim’s shirt. The bastard might hide the wince, but Jim wasn’t in any shape to lift his arms, never mind anything more. The newly exposed expanse of smooth skin allowed McCoy to breathe more easily. There was the slightest green-yellow of contusions where there had previously been a hole. McCoy laid his hand flat over where the wound had been, roughly where Jim had struck his own fist and talked nonchalantly about death years before.

Jim removed McCoy’s hand from his heart—McCoy was well aware that Jim was trying to distract him—and moved it down to cup the sharp crest of Jim’s hipbone instead, fingers tucked under the waist of his uniform pants.

“I know you’re thinking I’m too broken to fuck, Bones, but I think I can make a compelling case otherwise,” Jim angled his hips and ground his erection against McCoy’s thigh, “Especially considering I’ve been thinking about this since the second week of Academy.”

McCoy had always considered himself a doctor ahead of all else, but he needed this, too.

“Dammit, Jim. I ordered bed rest, get your ass lying down.”

“Whatever you say, doctor,” Jim grinned.

 

 

x.

McCoy awoke to Jim’s head tucked forcefully underneath his chin and arms wrapped over his ribs. He tried to untangle himself only to be drawn in further into the mess of limbs and bedsheets.

“You said you weren’t goin’ anywhere,” Jim said, muffled by the skin of McCoy’s neck. The words sounded like dream-nonsense considering McCoy had certainly not said anything since they had fallen asleep, sticky and sated.

They had both finally vacated the bed and Jim was shoveling eggs into his mouth by the time McCoy figured it out.

“Two weeks into Academy, Jim?”

Jim’s eyes darted up. “Mmf,” he said around the eggs.

“That was when you asked me,” McCoy said. He was sure of it now. There was no such thing as coincidence with James T. Kirk.

“What can I say? I liked the idea of a steady McCoy,” Jim answered, playing it light. “Everyone knows Kirks don’t have much of a lifespan.”

“Eat your breakfast. You better believe neither of us are going anywhere for awhile—I just got done fixing your sorry ass.”

Jim bumped their knees together and grinned. In the intimate quiet that followed, McCoy almost believed that they could  _will_  the world into submission.

He thought that maybe Jocelyn had the right idea all those years ago. Maybe it was better to not know how the person you love most will die. But one thing’s for certain: Jim was right, too. If this was McCoy’s real life version of the Kobayashi Maru, then McCoy would have to fight harder. He would damn well fight tooth and nail to keep Jim with him and breathing.

He didn’t tell Jim any of that. Instead, he said, “One hundred and thirty-eight.”

“What?” Jim asked, toast halfway to his mouth and confusion furrowing his brow. “It’s too early for random numbers, Bones.”

“Listen up. One hundred and thirty-eight—that’s when I’m kicking the bucket. I expect you to at least  _try_  to make it that long.”

Jim’s eyes widened. He recovered quickly, “Yeah, yeah. How could I not when you won’t leave me alone to die in peace? Chapel was  _holding my hand_ , Bones. I can only imagine the rumors.” Although Jim shook his head ruefully, there was raw appreciation in his face. McCoy heard what Jim meant, heard the reminder tucked into teasing words.

Well, fine. McCoy was ready to stand against fate itself if need be.


End file.
